


The Contracting Universe

by stickmarionette



Series: marvelous are your works [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Child Abuse, Character Study, Epistolary, F/F, Fix-It, M/M, Post-Episode: s02e13 Mizumono
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 09:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2423483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stickmarionette/pseuds/stickmarionette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"If anybody could catch the Ripper, you could."</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Will snorted. "No one can catch the Ripper, or hold him. But there's more than one way to skin a cat."</i>
</p><p>Will takes care of business. Next stop: Florence. (A coda to Transcendental.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Matthew Brown

**Author's Note:**

> Think of this as a bridge between Transcendental (Will POV) and the next part, which will be written entirely from Hannibal's POV.

When he was sufficiently recovered, Matthew Brown went straight from his hospital bed to a high security prison. There he stayed for months, unbothered by the attentions of the law, as those in charge of his case became understandably distracted by bigger fish.

The imperious way he strode into the room spoke to Will of someone a little miffed to have been abandoned amongst common criminals. Killers like Matthew set more store by their reputation than the rest of humanity. They craved recognition, by whatever means necessary.

Case in point: Matthew's eyes lit when he saw Will. "Mr Graham," he said, soft and surprised.

A smile crept onto Will's face, unbidden. He nodded at the remaining prison guard. "You can go."

"Brown's currently in solitary because he broke his cellmate's collarbone last week. I'm not comfortable leaving you alone with him, sir." The 'sir' was tossed in as an afterthought, as the guard glanced at Will's temporary FBI badge, and then up at his face, a flash of recognition darkening his stern features. "Hey, aren't you - "

Will held his gaze. "No need to worry on my account. Go on."

"Suit yourself," the guard muttered, and backed out of the room like crazy was contagious.

Cuffs clinked as Matthew gestured extravagantly at the bolted down table and rusted, dirty chairs, as if Will was a guest in his home. "Please, have a seat. I'm glad to see you looking so well, Mr Graham."

Will pulled his chair out, wincing at the screech of metal on concrete, and sat, mirroring Matthew's loose posture. "Surprised to see me?"

"A bit."

"I hope you're not getting in trouble," WIll said, gesturing at the spectacular bruise on the side of Matthew's face. Up close, it looked even worse.

"You should see the other guy," Matthew smirked. The expression pulled at the purple and black patch and made him look grotesque, which he no doubt knew. "Shouldn't have tried to beat me up, should he?"

"As long as you're not making things worse for yourself."

"No. I wouldn't do that." His knuckles were bruised, too. The way he'd folded his hands in front of him made it look like he was presenting them to Will. "Thank you for thinking of me."

"I owed you one." Matthew flicked his eyes up, towards the corner of the ceiling. The question in them was obvious.

Will shook his head. "You can speak freely."

Whatever reaction he'd expected, it was not for Matthew to look away from him, abashed. "I'm sorry about what happened. If I hadn't failed - "

"No apology needed. I knew it was a possibility."

Matthew's eyes widened. As Will suspected, he retained the perilous gift of picking out dissonant notes, and being able to interpret their meaning. "You intended for only one of us to emerge from the encounter, either way, didn't you?"

The smile that took over his face felt sharp enough to cut. "Yes."

"Because you didn't approve of my tribute?"

"You killed an innocent man in my name, Matthew," Will said softly.

Matthew's eyes glazed over, transported to the memory of that moment. He smiled. "I would do more if I could."

"I know," Will sighed. "I hear you're close to cutting a deal with the prosecutor."

"Sure am." Leaning back in his chair, Matthew spread as arms as wide as the cuffs allowed. "The man who tried to kill Hannibal the Cannibal - they were concerned juries might be sympathetic. The murder charge's already been dropped for lack of evidence. They don't think I'll serve more than three years, if I behave myself."

"I'm sure you'll manage."

"So I'll be seeing you again soon." Somehow, he made it sound like a plea.

"Maybe. Maybe not. Listen - if you kill again, they're going to catch you."

Matthew smiled. "Not without you, they won't."

Their hands had crept closer on the tabletop; they were now a hair's breath from touching. In the lines of Matthew's body, Will could read both yearning and an iron sense of restraint. He was almost vibrating with it.

"You should be afraid," Will murmured. "Seeking an association with me doesn't end well."

"No. Fear is not what I owe you," Matthew said slowly. He was gazing at Will like a supplicant might at a priest. "We get news in here, Mr Graham."

Will raised his eyebrows. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"I'm a student of your methods. Your work has a distinctive signature."

"Which is?"

"Irony. You pass judgment. But I'm safe as long as I do no wrong, right?" Matthew sat back with a screech of metal, a wide smirk carving its way across his face. " _For the time is come that judgment must begin at the House of God..._?"

Letting Matthew Brown be could be an act of mercy. But only if he took responsibility for it.

"Something like that."

"What about your Judas?" It took Will a moment. "My - oh. Why don't you let me worry about that."

"If anybody could catch the Ripper, you could."

Will snorted. "No one can catch the Ripper, or hold him. But there's more than one way to skin a cat."

Matthew tilted his head like an inquisitive bird. His solemn gaze bore into Will, who held himself still and hid nothing behind his eyes, allowing the scrutiny.

He was ashamed of nothing and had nothing to hide.

Whatever Matthew was looking for, he eventually found. He looked away first, down at his bruised knuckles, almost shy.

"I have something for you. Something to remember me by. I'd be honoured if you'd accept."

There was only one thing it could be. "Isn't that in evidence?"

"There's one more. They're a pair. I'll have my lawyer bring it to you."

For a moment, all he could think of was the thin, fading scars on Hannibal's forearms, and how it had made him feel to see them. "Then I accept. Thank you."

"You're welcome. May I write to you?"

Will considered. Hannibal would hate it. "Yes. I'll be in touch."


	2. Margot Verger

"So Mason wants to see me?" There was no answer but the desperate wheezing of someone not getting nearly enough air. Will let up on the intruder's windpipe, enough that he was no longer slowly choking to death.  "Answer the question."

"Mr - Mr Verger - requests - requests your presence - "

Will pressed down again. "A request at gunpoint? I don't think so. You scared my dogs."

Even now, Winston and Buster were anxiously milling around the porch. The others were less foolhardy and had scattered at the first sign of trouble.

"See, I told you I had to come along or you'd get sent back to Mason in a box," said a new, familiar voice.

"Margot." Surprised, Will let go and stepped back, although he kept a hand on his gun holster. "You look good."

She did - far less brittle than when they'd first met, when the shadow of her brother had hung heavy over her. They looked at each other with new awareness.

"Hello, Will. No trap, I promise. If Mason tries anything, I'll know."

Will glanced down at the doubled-over, coughing man on his porch, who was making no effort to go for the gun he'd dropped . "All right, then."

He locked the dogs inside, grabbed his satchel and dutifully followed Margot to a gleaming new Maserati just in time to see a black Jeep peel out of the driveway like all the hounds of hell were after it.

"If he wanted to ambush me, he should've parked further away."

"He should have tried asking nicely. But my brother's thugs all take after him. They wouldn't know subtle if it hit them." Margot gestured to the back seat. "After you. We have a lot to talk about on the way."

"Maybe you should've let me get changed first," Will said ruefully, brushing a few strands of dog hair off his khaki trousers before giving it up for a lost cause.

If he was going to see Mason, he needed all the armour he could get. On the other hand, there was something to be said for looking unassuming, especially since he wasn't sure how much Mason remembered from the evening he lost his face.

"Don't worry about the seats," Margot said, ducking into the back from the other side. She gave him a measuring look. "Although I get wanting a few layers of armour to deal with Mason."

"Making progress with your problem?"

"Yes. With my increased autonomy it's been easier to do a little digging." Margot leaned forward and patted the shoulder of the driver, her lovely face relaxing into the first smile Will could ever remember seeing on it. He was abruptly reminded of a wolf baring her teeth. "Will, this is Judith Marquez, my new attorney. Judy, you can tell Will everything. We're friends. Aren't we?"

The word seemed inadequate to capture the web of lies and blood that bound them together, but it would have to do for now. "Sure we are."

The driver, who had a head of long, dark curls, turned and gave Will a quick grin. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr Graham. Miss Verger's told me a lot about you."

"I shudder to think," Will said dryly.

"Oh no, the majority of it was very flattering."

Marquez's voice was pleasantly low and utterly assured. He could easily imagine it filling a room. Everything about her felt sharp, like someone others would forever dash themselves apart against without ever coming close to cracking.

"I won't bore you with the details, but the gist of it is this: Miss Verger was previously misled as to the terms of her father's will. The problem isn't as intractable as she thought."

"What does that mean, precisely?"

Over the roar of the engine starting, Margot leaned over the armrest between them, eyes bright with mischief, and said, "it turns out all we have to do is persuade two near-senile old men to add my name to a document. And for Mason to sign it."

She made it sound like a walk in the park when it had to be quite the opposite. Especially if she wanted him involved. "What do you need from me? Help applying leverage?"

Margot's lips twitched. "See, Judy. I told you he was good. No. I need you to distract Mason with a wild goose chase so I can make the necessary arrangements."

A wild goose chase, dangling the prospect of his own private revenge upon Hannibal Lecter in front of a man who would love nothing more. Convenient.

"I can do that. How are you going to get his signature?"

"Let me take care of that. You take care of yourself." A stray lock of hair fell into her face and she tucked it back behind her ear, staring determinedly ahead, bracing herself for what she was about to say. Since he opened his eyes in the hospital, Will had become very familiar with this particular pause in conversation. He knew what was about to be carefully broached. "I...was sorry to hear about what happened with Doctor Lecter."

"It's all right. Really. Or - it's going to be."

Margot studied him carefully, with the weight of someone used to relying on their ability to head off any menacing turns in conversation.  "A part of me wants to ask - but I don't really want to know, do I."

All things considered, she knew too much already. He'd be surprised if she hadn't had similar thoughts about him. Trust was difficult for them both.

Will smiled. "We have matching scars, Margot. You understand better than you think."

"I don't know what you mean," she said stiffly.

"Yes, you do. Neither of us are afraid of the dark."

Margot had stored up so much rage that no reckoning would exhaust it. Like Will, she'd go through life with the potential for brutality coiled up inside her, waiting for the right moment. He saw the heart of it now in her eyes, freed of any pretense of civility.

"I don't want to have my entire life defined by what was done to me. I won't let that happen, whatever it takes."

At last, they had arrived at total honesty with each other.

"I'll help you, but you have to do something for me."


	3. Dr Cordell Doemling

Cordell prided himself on having good judgement. The standard life expectancy of mafia doctors was brutally short, and shortened further for those who dared to switch loyalties. Cordell had stayed alive through the shifting fortunes of Baltimore's underworld through a combination of impeccable timing and picking the winner in every conflict.

When the offer came from Mason Verger, he had known it could not be casually refused. So far, the pay barely made up for the more unsavory aspects of the job, most of which stemmed from the stench of insanity wafting off his employer.

It was worse when they had guests. During those times, Cordell did his best to occupy himself at the other end of the compound. Unfortunately, Mason wanted him close at hand today. He had a feeling he was about to find out why.

"Cordell, are you there? Come meet the man who owned all those dogs."

Cordell's first reaction was relief - at least it wasn't a child this time. Then he processed the words, and his steps slowed. He'd seen Mason's face fresh, before they started trying to save what was left. One of the other doctors had to leave the room to vomit.

 _I remember the two of them standing over me as I sliced bits off my face,_ Mason had slurred in one of his painkiller hazes, barely understandable through ruined lips. _Chatting like I wasn't there._

A shiver ran through Cordell's body, even though the room with the enormous bed was kept unseasonably warm for Mason's comfort.

Will Graham's mugshot didn't do him justice. He'd looked like a crazed killer then, sunken eyes and sallow skin. The man standing over Mason's bed could be mistaken for a college professor.

"Cordell takes care of me and makes sure I'm comfortable. Doctor, say hello to Will Graham."

"Hello, Mr Graham."

"Doctor." Graham's gaze passed over him like a searchlight, paused for far too long, and finally went back to Mason. "You wanted me to see you. Now I have. If there's nothing else, I have work to do."

"Ah, yes, the Ripper task force. Kade Purnell refuses to tell me what she's up to, so all I'm left with is the dregs of Tattle Crime. I thought you might be more forthcoming."

"Why would I tell you?"

"The FBI'll just lock him up if they find him, and that's no fun at all. I know you're all about fun when it comes to Doctor Lecter. Just like me."

Cordell shifted uncomfortably, recalling Mason's definition of fun. At least with a monster like Lecter there'd be no doubt that he deserved it, he told himself.

"I'd rather not have anything in common with you."

"What do you want? I'm not paying you. Count your lucky stars I'm not chopping off fingers as incentive yet," Mason said casually, and Cordell started thinking of excuses to get out of what was sure to be an unpleasant evening ahead. It was always worse when Mason wanted them kept alive long enough to divulge information.

He jumped at Graham's sharp, serrated laugh. "Threatening me just makes me less inclined to cooperate."

"It's not a threat, it's simple fact. You don't have a choice."

Graham shook his head, like Mason was the one being slow on the uptake. "I'm not giving you information. I want in. When we figure out where he is, I'll go get him. Those are my terms."

"I'm funding this entire operation. Good, reliable people are expensive these days. What are you bringing to the table?" 

It was hard to tell with the face mask, but Mason almost seemed pleased. Like he was having fun.

"You won't find him without me," Graham said flatly. He took out what looked like a stack of photos from his satchel and fanned them out in groups at the foot of the bed, tapping each stack as he spoke. "These are from Interpol. Palermo. Nice. Toulouse."

Cordell risked a look and immediately felt the remnants of lunch curdling in his stomach. 

"Bring them up here, Cordell. I want to see."

Slowly, feeling as though he was reaching into a beehive, Cordell gathered up the photos under Graham's watchful gaze, trying not to look any closer at them. Sweat was breaking out on the back of his neck.

He fanned the photos out again in front of Mason, who merely made an amused, thoughtful noise at the carnage.

"Up to his old tricks again?"

"Because I stirred him up. He's dropping bread crumbs for me to follow."

"What is it about you?" Mason said, in the far-too-interested tone he used on crying children that always made Cordell's skin crawl.

Graham just smiled. "Wouldn't you like to know."

"What do you think, Cordell? What does Lecter want with the dog whisperer?"

To kill, fuck, and eat him, in whatever order? Cordell wasn't a psychiatrist. He couldn't be paid enough to think about the workings of a mind like that. He opened his mouth, and caught Graham looking at him with something approaching pity.

It took effort to force words past his throat, even stripped of the crudeness of the original thoughts. "Human beings only ever want the same few things."

Graham snorted. "Don't make the mistake of seeing Hannibal Lecter as a human being."

"What do you think he wants?"

"I think," Graham started, his eyes dropping to the photos spread out over Mason's bed, blood and organs and more brutality than Cordell could handle, and he could swear the man's face softened, "I think he wants to make something beautiful."

Mason considered this for a few minutes, staring at Graham like he wanted to peel his skin to see what was underneath. With the perfect stillness of the resting predator, Graham allowed the scrutiny. Finally, Mason wheezed out a laugh. "You're a funny man, Will Graham. It is providence itself when a destiny like yours is coupled with a man as resourced as I am."

"Isn't it."

There was something terrifying about that soft-eyed look. Cordell couldn't understand how Mason could fail to see it.

*

Torn between some indefinable fear and curiosity, Cordell let Graham get nearly to the garage before he plucked up the courage.

"Can I ask a question?"

"You can ask."

"You made sure I was between you and Simao in there, right? So that he couldn't get a clear shot at you?"

Graham looked gratifyingly surprised. "It brought me a few extra seconds, so I could've killed Mason before your friend killed me. Don't take it personally."

"Simao couldn't reach you in time, but what if I had jumped you?"

"You wouldn't have."

Okay, now he felt a little insulted. "Why?"

When Graham spoke again, it was in an undertone. "You seem like a smart guy."

Cordell matched his volume. "I'd like to think so."

"A smart guy would consider all his alternatives when confronted with someone like Mason Verger."

"Do those alternatives still end with me getting paid?"

"Mason's last batch of employees all ended up as pig food. The only difference was whether they were still alive when they were being eaten." The full weight of Graham's cool, penetrating gaze fell on Cordell. "A smart guy might reexamine his priorities and put living a bit higher than money."

Cordell felt a chill that seemed to sink into his bones. "What would you do?"

"I'd speak to Miss Verger about those alternatives."


	4. Jack Crawford

_Jack_

_If you're reading this, Alana must have passed on my message, and now you're turning my place upside down looking for clues. Don't bother. You know there won't be anything you can use._

_You'll have questions. I'm sorry I can't answer them in person. You deserve that from me, but I also deserve a clean break from the Ripper, and from the FBI. Do you still remember the day I told you the job was bad for me? It was, and we both know that now. I made the choice that let me keep as much of my humanity as I could. That's all._

_The actions of others aren't your fault. But if you repeat your own actions knowing the likely consequences then you are culpable for what happens. Don't let there be another Miriam, or me._

_Let it go, Jack. Take some time to recover. The Ripper is over. Turn the page. I'm not asking this as a favour to me or anyone else. It's only for the sake of the friendship we had. Don't let it swallow you too. I'm glad you're still in one piece, more or less._

_Give my best to Bella._

_Will_


	5. Will Graham

Mason Verger spared no expense in the name of revenge. A man like him had no way of understanding what it took and what it cost, unlike his sister, but fortunately for Will he sure knew how to throw money at problems. 

It only took them a few days after Will coughed up an approximate location for them to arrange passage out of the country. At first, he had been skeptical of their ability to get him out under the watchful eye of the FBI, but it turned out he needn't have worried - money and a certain lack of scruples on the part of Mason went a long way. The whole process went astonishingly fast, especially after Will implied that they only had a small window before Hannibal moved on to another city, leaving the trail cold.

Mason's hired hands didn't try to speak to him, and he barely spoke to them beyond the simple courtesies. It made for a restful journey.

During his imprisonment, Will had lived out entire days in his stream, with no company other than ghost and monsters. There was no end to the shoreline, and no bottom to the river. His waking life might have been confined to a tiny cell, but he had a lifetime of stimuli stored up, perfectly rendered down to every tiny detail, and very flimsy barriers between the real and the imagined. There was plenty of time and space to put the shattered pieces of himself back together.

When Will was ten, he lived in a run-down shack near the water and saw his dad three or four times a week. Their neighbours were an old lady and her son, who worked with Will's dad. The lady's name was Anita. She had four dogs and offered Will home-baked cookies whenever she found him working alone. He could still close his eyes and see her toothy grin.

One day, Anita stopped coming out to see Will. Her son met Will at the door of their farmhouse, pale, twitchy, with a fresh set of clothes and clean hands that smelled of bleach. That was the first time Will looked at someone and _knew_.

It was also the first time he looked at someone and imagined what death would look like on them.

(Danny Greene, teeth bared in a savage grin, hunting knife in hand, right before he lunged at Will.

What was left of Danny Greene's face seized with wide-eyed fear, frozen at the moment of death.)

When they first met, Hannibal had taken one look at him and seen the shape of his struggles. Will drank up his easy understanding like a thirsty man in the desert, not realising that Hannibal was far from an impartial observer, and that he was in fact working towards total victory for the parts of Will that were incompatible with humanity.

The darkness inside him had grown strong, gorging on a steady diet of death and pain, taking full advantage of his vulnerability during the illness. He couldn't conquer it, but he could turn it inside out and let it settle instead of carving himself up into unstable halves. The parts of him that understood too well, and the parts of him that enjoyed wielding power over death were not all of him, and they didn't drive him. All he had to do was shift his perspective.

He wondered what Hannibal would see in him now, without any barriers or lies between them. Someone who finally fit their own skin, maybe, at a time when Hannibal's own was fraying at the seams.

Will closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he was in Wolf Trap, sitting on his porch. There was Winston, stretching his head up to be petted, and the rest of his strays running free.

(Leaving the dogs had been difficult. He'd taken the time to find them all good homes, meeting the new owners to make sure they were going to be treated right. To his relief, Alana had agreed to take Winston.)

There were no shadows, no monsters.

The pendulum swung in his mind, wiping Wolf Trap away and replacing it with Hannibal's latest in big, broad strokes.

The body of Hugo Paulin was found in Parc floral de Paris, tied to a tree with thick fishing lines in the heart of the famous Valley of Flowers. The lines criss-crossed under the skin of his back, through his thighs, ankles and wrists. The examining pathologist would have opened the Y-shaped incision down his chest to a riot of flowers - all the organs had been surgically removed, the empty chest cavity filled to the brim.

The report pointed out that the flowers were hydrangeas and included a short fact file, on which someone had highlighted their most common natural habitat (Asia). Will's eyes caught instead on their meaning: intense gratitude for being understood.

A little on the blunt side, but Hannibal probably hadn't wanted any room for misinterpretation.

_See. See? I do._

He was perfectly aware of the appropriate - some would say correct - response to such a gift, and there was, as always, a residual desire for such a response within himself. But the sky wouldn't fall if he allowed himself to appreciate the thoughtfulness of it, and to be grateful in turn, and it was more honest. 

There was, after all, no need to be afraid anymore.

The Ripper task force had vigorously debated the meaning of the patterns under Paulin's skin. Will had contributed a few ideas, all of them plausible enough to be followed up on, but none of them true. That understanding was only for the two of them.

Back in reality, Will buttoned up his coat and slipped Matthew Brown's knife into his pocket.

_I'm coming for you._


	6. Postscript (Folie à deux)

Excerpts from a long-form piece in the New Yorker:

 

### Folie à deux

_Whatever happened to Hannibal Lecter?_

By Fredricka Lounds

A week before the disappearance of former FBI Special Investigator Will Graham, I visited him at his little farmhouse in Wolf Trap, Virginia. He seemed perfectly normal. Of course, normal for Graham was nothing like normal for other people.

A year ago, he'd been on trial, accused of the cold-blooded murder of five people. The only thing the prosecution and the defence were arguing about was whether he knew what he was doing when he did it. As it turned out, the trial was merely the culmination of a long chain of events which spoke volumes of the FBI's reckless disregard for the safety of the public and the health and sanity of their own employees. The Bureau had determined long ago that Graham did not possess the required mental stability to be a field agent. Nevertheless, it found his mind far too precious to waste.

You see, as Jack Crawford, the agent in charge of the Behavioral Science Unit (BAU), told us on the stand, Graham could think like anybody. This outlandish talent had helped the BAU close a record number of cases before Graham himself became a suspect for the five murders ultimately claimed by that most notorious of serial killers - the Chesapeake Ripper, the man we now know as Doctor Hannibal Lecter.

Much has been written on the Ripper investigation. What is undeniable is that the FBI failed. It consistently went after the wrong men, and ignored those who knew better. It failed the Ripper's many victims. The office of the Inspector General's desperate attempts at salvaging the situation by shifting the blame to those who were at the forefront of the effort to apprehend the right man should not be allowed to obscure the truth. This was a fiasco.

Take the case of Abigail Hobbs, the girl secretly imprisoned by Lecter in his basement even as Graham went on trial for her murder.

I had become friendly with Abigail while helping her write a book on her experiences living in the shadow of her father, Garrett Jacob Hobbs, the serial killer known as the Minnesota Shrike. Hobbs had killed and eaten seven girls who looked just like her. When Graham finally found him, he had just murdered his wife and had a knife to Abigail's throat in the family kitchen. Graham shot Hobbs dead while Hobbs cut his daughter's throat.

"That was the first time he saved my life."

Abigail's reply flashed up on screen. We were using a chat programme because her vocal chords had been damaged when Lecter cut her throat open a second time on the evening all his secrets unravelled. She's been penciled in for three further surgeries which doctors hope will give her back the ability to speak. In the meantime, she's keen to set the record straight.

Lecter was there, the day her father tried to kill her. He also had a hand in saving her life. Over the next few months, as she recovered from her injuries, he took advantage of her vulnerability and maneuvered himself into a position of influence. He became one of her guardians.

"Then I saw him. I saw what he was. That's why he made me disappear."

( _Survivor: The Abigail Hobbs Story_ will now be published early next year, with substantial revisions to incorporate Miss Hobbs' ordeal at the hands of Hannibal Lecter. The majority of the proceeds will go into a fund to cover Miss Hobbs' on-going medical costs.)

Hannibal the Cannibal inspires revulsion and fascination in the same breath. The dinner parties, the three-piece suits, that now-infamous pantry - every new detail meat and drink to a public eager to be horrified by the monster who had been living in disguise among them. Ever since his identity was revealed, the public have been inundated with so-called experts who claim to be able to explain his sickness, to understand the monster wearing human skin. But those close to the Ripper investigation insist that the only person with any practical understanding of both the man and the monster was Will Graham.

*

As far as the FBI can establish, I was the last person Graham spoke to before he disappeared. We talked almost exclusively about Lecter. Earlier that week, Dr Frederick Chilton, Ripper victim and former administrator of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, had published an article calling Lecter the human embodiment of evil. I asked Graham for his response.

"I don't think evil is a useful concept. People can be good or bad or somewhere in between. It's a spectrum."

Graham was a hard man to pin down. He could be amiable, even charming at times, but even then he gave off the air of someone vaguely alien. Not from around here. It made him seem off-putting to most people, but not to Lecter, who courted, and eventually attained, his elusive friendship.

More than once, I asked Graham why he thought he'd been targeted, to no avail. If he had any theories on the matter - and I'm sure he did - he wasn't eager to share them with me.

Lecter's crimes were barbaric - the sort of cartoonish, outlandish horror that led rational men and women to hyperbole, rather than analysis. I saw Lecter not through our own encounters, in which he was always impenetrable, but through the relationships he sought out, with Abigail, Graham, and with his own psychiatrist, the mysterious Bedelia Du Maurier, who went missing around the time Lecter made his spectacular exit from Baltimore.

The timing is significant. I pointed out to Graham that Lecter had received a call from a burner phone approximately fifteen minutes before Agent Crawford arrived at Lecter's residence, on the bloody evening that revealed Lecter's secrets to the world.

"Was it from Dr Du Maurier, do you think?"

"It's certainly possible. I'd spoken to her just a few days before, when the FBI still had her. She was...hard to read."

"Even for you?"

"Even for me."

 

….

 

Graham successfully exposed Lecter for what he was and was stabbed in the gut for his troubles. His superiors at the FBI debated whether to arrest him or put him right back in the field while he lay recovering in the ICU. No wonder he leapt at the chance to capture Lecter, when it was offered to him.

Analysts at the Behavioural Sciences Unit think it's likely that Graham actually found Lecter, before the end. According to them, Will Graham is dead. But what if he's not? What if, somewhere in this big old world of ours, he's sitting down to dinner with Hannibal Lecter?

 

(Fredricka Lounds is known for her coverage of the Chesapeake Ripper case on her popular true crime blog Tattle Crime. _Hannibal the Cannibal: the True Face of the Ripper_ , featuring full transcripts of exclusive interviews with Special Investigator Will Graham and discussing for the first time her own run-ins with Lecter, will be published in hardback and on all electronic formats later this month.)

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. _"...It is in your nature to do one thing correctly: before Me you rightly tremble. Fear is not what you owe Me, Lounds, you and the other pismires. You owe Me awe.”_ \- Red Dragon, Thomas Harris
> 
> 2\. _For the time is come that judgment must begin at the house of God: and if it first begin at us, what shall the end be of them that obey not the gospel of God?_ (1 Peter 4:17)
> 
> 3\. [Matthew's gift for Will](http://www.spyderco.com/catalog/details.php?product=179).
> 
> 4\. If you're interested in why neither the show nor Hannibal the book's take on estates and succession makes any sense, [I wrote about it here](http://stickmarionette.tumblr.com/post/90240781659/unravelling-verger-family-finances).
> 
> 5\. Mason's line about providence is of course lifted verbatim from the deleted scene in Ko No Mono.
> 
> 6\. Thank you for reading. All feedback gratefully received.


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